


electrification

by starlight_sugar



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 21:49:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15850044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_sugar/pseuds/starlight_sugar
Summary: The Widow laughs, a breathy, cruel sound. “No, darling, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone you can trick. The only crown knight here is the man you came with. You’re no knight.”





	electrification

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanwork not at all affiliated with the M:I franchise.
> 
> This fic was written for the prompt "alternate universe: royalty/aristocracy/feudal" on my Trope Bingo Round 11 card. I ended up with sort of... abstract regency AU, so we're just gonna roll with it.

“May I present to you, Sir Ilsa Faust, knight to the crown.”

“Oh,” says the four hundredth nameless noble that Ilsa has met in the past hour. He looks absently surprised, like the prospect of a woman knight had never occurred to him. Come to think of it, it almost certainly hadn’t.

Ilsa keeps her polite, flat smile pasted on as she bows as deeply as she can manage. “An honor.”

“Yes, quite,” says the nameless noble, and then, “I say, they let just anyone become a knight these days.”

Benji winces; Ilsa doesn’t. “I assure you, I passed my training much the same as the other knights, and my devotion to the crown is complete.”

The man looks uncomfortable now, like he hadn’t expected Ilsa to respond to him. “I suppose,” he says, and then turns across the room to wave at someone in a well-practiced maneuver. Ilsa lets him go, because it is so truly not worth the effort of maintaining that conversation, or whatever political allyship she just lost.

She glances sidelong at Benji, who’s now openly grimacing. “You know they all think it, right?”

“Most of them don’t say it,” he mutters. He’s not wrong: most of the pointless royals they meet know that their position doesn’t afford them the privilege of being rude to a crown knight. The cousin to the viscount of some tiny county has no place questioning the choices of actual royalty, whether or not they understand them. She supposes that might mean she just talked back to some actual important royal, but if they wanted someone who would only smile and look pretty then they should’ve sent another knight. They know that Ilsa hates these gatherings.

“Sir Dunn,” she says quietly, “I don’t suppose you’d allow me to step outside for a moment and get some air.”

It’s a loaded question, steeped in half a dozen different cover stories. They’ve spent the night establishing herself as a knight and Benji as her handler, and it’d be a shame to have anyone believe any differently. As far as anyone knows, Benji controls her. They’d made jokes about it upon receiving the assignment, or more accurately he’d made a joke of it: in what world could he stop Sir Faust from doing what she wanted to do? It had been funny at the time. It’s less funny now that she actually needs to ask his permission.

Benji doesn’t hesitate, only offers her a lopsided grin. “You don’t have to ask, you know.”

“It’s only polite.”

“And you are so deeply concerned with politeness.”

Ilsa lets her papered-on smile slip into something genuine, just for a moment. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me to these wolves,” Benji complains, but he grabs her wrist and squeezes for a moment. “Don’t go looking for trouble.”

“I’ll only find the trouble we’re here for,” she promises. She catches the edge of his grin as she hitches her skirts up and makes for the door to the balcony. Loathes it though she does, it’s much easier to move through the crowd like this: head down, ducking demurely between clusters of conversations. Most of the people move to make room for a lady making an exit, even the ones who know that she’s not a lady the same way that most of the attendees are, and she makes it to the doors with ease.

There’s only one other woman on the balcony, a blonde woman who didn’t bother with all the proper skirts and such the way Ilsa did. Her eyes skate up and down Ilsa, and Ilsa can’t help but do the same, taking in her fitted white dress, her manicured eyebrows, the way she settles more firmly where she’s leaning back against the railing. Ilsa goes to meet her eyes, but the woman looks away, like she’s dismissing her.

Ilsa ignores the dismissal and goes to the railing, resting her elbows on it. She leans forward, far enough that anyone else coming towards the balcony wouldn’t easily see her face. Carefully, she lifts one hand and smooths her hair back, where it’s coiled in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. It’s too formal for her, all of this is, but she can appreciate the difference that it makes for her to look like someone else tonight.

“The yellow suits you,” says the other woman, still facing the door, looking at the party. Ilsa wonders if she’s watching it.

“The white suits you as well, Lady Mitsopolis,” Ilsa returns. “Or would you prefer Alanna?”

Ilsa doesn’t have to look to see the smile that the woman wears, razor-sharp and painted red. She can feel it. “I would prefer The White Widow, if it’s all same to you. I was under the impression I was meeting with a crown knight.”

“Sir Hunt had an emergency reassignment.”

“So they sent you.”

“A crown knight to replace a crown knight.”

The Widow laughs, a breathy, cruel sound. “No, darling, I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone you can trick. The only crown knight here is the man you came with. You’re no knight.”

Ilsa can’t help herself; she turns to look at the Widow. She tries to keep her face as neutral as possible, but it’s hard with how genuinely surprised she is. “Beg pardon?”

“You think I don’t have spies within the palace? Within the knights?” The Widow tilts her head, letting her hair waterfall over one shoulder. “No, I know exactly who you are, Spymaster Faust, just like I recognize Sir Dunn out there. What I can’t determine is why you’re speaking with me, rather than him.”

“They figured it would be more proper for a lady to approach you in public than a gentleman.” Ilsa barely manages to keep her face straight, even as she sees the mirth lighting up the Widow’s face. “We wouldn’t want to tarnish your reputation.”

“Wouldn’t we now,” the Widow says. Her eyes are sparkling, like she understands some clever joke that Ilsa hadn’t realized she was making. Or like she’s just had an idea. “You may have noticed nobody questioning me standing here alone, nor me talking with a strange woman. My reputation is already rather tarnished, I’m afraid.”

“There’s always more damage to be done.”

“And I’m always ready to do it.” She straightens up, no longer leaning on the balcony. “Although I’m afraid that after tonight, your reputation may be forfeit.”

“My reputation is a lie, as you so astutely pointed out.” Ilsa tilts her head, watching the Widow closely as she takes a step towards Ilsa, then another. She feels her breath catch, although she can’t quite explain why. The Widow’s lips twitch up into a genuine, dangerous smile, and Ilsa smiles back, making sure to bare her teeth. “Sacrifices must be made, my lady.”

“Oh, promises, promises,” the Widow murmurs. One of her hands moves to Ilsa’s shoulder, slowly, like gravity, and Ilsa feels herself turning to face her more fully, even though it’s not a conscious choice. “Miss Faust-”

“Sir Faust,” Ilsa says, mostly automatic, and the Widow laughs, her breath warm against Ilsa’s face. She has to strive to keep her expression flat. “I worked hard for that title.”

“Sir Faust,” the Widow says magnanimously. Her fingers shift on Ilsa’s shoulder, feather-light, the only points of contact between them. “Do you know the best way to pass along information?”

Ilsa swallows. The Widow arches her eyebrow. This was not, she thinks wildly, how this meeting was supposed to go.

“When everybody thinks you’re passing along something else,” she answers at last.

The Widow beams, with something like approval, and then lifts her hand and yanks the pin out of Ilsa’s hair. It all comes undone in one great spiral, uncoiling to float around her shoulders. Ilsa gasps, more out of reflex than anything, and the Widow’s smile goes sharp before her fingers plant themselves on the back of Ilsa’s head, letting the pin clatter to the ground. Ilsa tips her chin upward, because she knows how these things go, and the Widow makes a soft noise as she leans in to nip at Ilsa’s throat, all as part of the cover, as the plan-

“You could do a little to make it convincing,” the Widow purrs against her neck, and Ilsa decides, to hell with the plan.

Her hands find the Widow’s hips and tug, sharply. She stumbles forward into Ilsa, letting out a soft  _ oh _ as she goes, and Ilsa pushes her advantage. One of her hands shifts to the small of the Widow’s back, keeping her pressed close even as she draws backwards to arch an eyebrow at Ilsa.

“I need the name,” Ilsa says, voice far too thin for her liking.

“Do you,” the Widow says, looking far too amused. “Well, I believe I agreed to give that to Sir Hunt, and-”

“The name,” Ilsa repeats, and ducks in to kiss the corner of the Widow’s mouth. She’s careful to keep her face pointed towards the balcony, away from the door and prying eyes, and she can feel the Widow’s smile against her mouth.

“Darling,” the Widow sighs, turns her head, meets Ilsa’s eyes, “all you had to do was ask.”

She whispers the end of the sentence right into Ilsa’s mouth, and Ilsa swallows it, closes her eyes, presses her lips against the Widow’s own. The Widow meets her easily, open-mouthed and warm and with the same disconcerting mirth that she’s had the whole time. She kisses steadily, with confidence that isn’t even broken when Ilsa skates one hand up her waist, back down to her hip.

“Tease,” the Widow breathes, and catches Ilsa’s hand in her own, the hand that isn’t still pressed against the back of Ilsa’s head. Ilsa laces her fingers with the Widow’s and squeezes her hand. The Widow kisses her again, then bites Ilsa’s bottom lip and Ilsa can’t help the whine that escapes her, desperate and  _ wanting. _

The Widow laughs softly as she pulls away, just a couple of inches. Her hand slides from the back of Ilsa’s head to cup her cheek, and Ilsa forces herself to open her eyes. The Widow still looks like she’s laughing, but for once Ilsa isn’t certain that she’s being laughed at.

“I’ll have to ask them to send you again,” the Widow murmurs, and Ilsa manages a real smile. “You commit to your cover, Sir Faust.”

“I could say the same of you, Lady Mitsopolis.” Ilsa unhooks her fingers from the Widow’s, curling her fingers by her side. “Although your reputation-”

“Has been forfeit for much longer than tonight.” The Widow’s eyes flick towards the door. “I’m afraid I dropped your hairpin.”

“I’m afraid the battle of putting my hair up has been forfeit for much longer than tonight.”

The Widow takes a careful step away, and Ilsa can feel every inch of space between them. She’s still smiling, head cocked just barely, and Ilsa wants to take her apart until she understands the ticking of her clockwork brain, until she’s shaking too hard to say her own name.

“I’ll see you in the ball, Sir Faust,” the Widow says after a moment.

“And you,” Ilsa says, and doesn’t watch her go. She waits until she hears the door swing closed to look at the scrap of parchment that the Widow had pressed into her palm. She reads the name, commits it to memory, and bends over to pick up her hairpin, on the ground where the Widow dropped it. Carefully, she drags one fingernail along the length of it until the firestarter catches, a couple sparks lighting against her fingertips. She presses the corner of the parchment against it and scratches the firestarter again, and the parchment goes up in a puff of smoke.

Ilsa looks back out over the balcony. There’s a courtyard beneath her, but nobody there; nobody to see her. She wishes for a desperate, inane second that someone could see her.

“Sir Faust!” Benji’s voice calls through the door, and Ilsa barely has time to turn before it’s swinging open. “Have you gotten- wow, your hair was definitely up earlier.”

“I’m afraid I ruined Sir Carter’s hard work,” Ilsa replies. Her voice is surprisingly steady, but she knows she must look a mess, with her hair down, and her lips swollen.

Benji examines her for a moment, and then holds out his hand. “Hairpin?”

Ilsa hands it to him and turns around, and he steps closer to sweep her hair up into a twist. “Lady Mitsopolis is…”

“One of a kind?” Benji finishes dryly. “Her methods are unorthodox, but she’s a reliable source.”

“I got his name.”

“Excellent. Turn around?”

Ilsa turns, and Benji nods. “Good enough. We’ll be making a retreat now. I’m afraid there’s no saving your lipstick, we’ll just have to walk quickly.”

“I wasn’t wearing lipstick.”

Benji’s eyebrows slowly rise. “Well,” he says at last, “you are now, and we’ll have to walk very quickly.”

Ilsa presses two fingers to her lips, and they come away barely tinged with red. “Excellent,” she murmurs, and Benji snorts and offers her his hand, and they’re off.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn't really regency era, but [this is Ilsa's dress.](https://www.reemacra.com/wp-content/uploads/Look-8-_-566.jpg) (Just imagine, like, petticoats. A lot of them.)
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr/Twitter @waveridden as well as on Dreamwidth @harshlights. Come say hi. You can also drop the name of two female M:I characters in my inbox somewhere and just watch my wheels spin as I talk about their potential relationship. I bet it's fun.


End file.
